


the floors of hell, her gates of heaven

by agnes_writes



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Sexual Tension, The Author Regrets Nothing, no beta readers we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agnes_writes/pseuds/agnes_writes
Summary: The myths were wrong.The right hand of the war god did not go anywhere she did not intend.And she would never be foolish enough to be kidnapped.No, she kneels in front of the King of the Underworld with a cunning look in her eye, a dagger strapped to her waist and a deal he cannot say no to.Jude Duarte has the Lord of the Dead wrapped around her finger.
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar
Comments: 31
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever multichapter fanfic and who better it is to be about than my favorite couple!
> 
> There's just something about Greek mythology that suits the two of them so well, too, and I absolutely adore the myth of Hades and Persephone, so I'm hoping to play around with that in this fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

_“And if there is anyone who can make the dead quiver in fear, it is her.”_

**_I._ **

She only watches as the soldier’s blood drains onto the stones, taking his life force with it. The crimson liquid snakes its way in its crevices, dripping into the river.

She frowns.

Her mother would not be pleased.

But her father certainly would.

She approaches the soldier, kneels beside him as he chokes out feeble calls for help, the gash on his throat deep and wet, gushing out a dark red; death is imminent, she thinks. His eyes are glassy, his ears deaf to the battle that rages on around him.

He closes his eyes and Jude Duarte leaves her mark on his chest; a simple symbol of sword drawn in his own blood; a symbol for the valiant.

A guarantee for Asphodel, at the very least.

She knows not what the life this soldier has led, but her father’s favor for the brave has saved him from damnation.

No one pays her any mind as Jude stands, wandering to the heart of the battle, as she marks another, this time slumped against a tree, the fatal blow on his stomach.

Another with an arrow buried in their chest.

Another whose blood covered the entirety of his face.

Another whose head is separated from their body.

Jude does not blink as she leaves her mark on these soldiers, as she steps over the carnage and corpses upon corpses that she passes. She diligently does her duty, marking those who are worthy, and moves along.

The grass pokes and prods at her feet, as if signaling their disapproval, the smell of death mingles with the fresh breeze, and her white tunic is stained at the seams, dragged across the filth of blood, sweat and mud.

 _The forest is no place for bloodshed,_ her mother would say. She agrees, though it is only because the forest has always been a poor choice of battleground. The bastards that they were, the Persians had ambushed a defenseless group of scholars under ceasefire. Even the thought makes Jude’s blood boil. There is a fine line between cunning and cowardice, between strategy and cheating. The Persians have always been in the latter.

They’ll suffer when they perish.

Jude does not blink as blood splatters on her gown, unfazed as another warrior falls beside her, spear plunged in his gut, bearing the crest of the Persian army. She smiles at the soldier who had thrown it, and blesses him to strike true on whoever crosses his path in this battle.

The skies shift from orange to purple in the shadows of the leaves in the trees, and Jude takes this as the cue to take her leave. There is no one worthy left on this battlefield; yet, anyway. She makes her way back to the riverbank, soaking her hands in the crystal-clear water that flows downstream. The red that coats her hands is carried by the current, all but dissolving it. She smirks, knowing how her mother would react had she seen her do it.

In the water, Jude sees her reflection. She’s never been particularly fond of it—her chestnut hair is windswept, tendrils falling from her golden band on her heart-shaped face, her dark eyes fixated on the small specks of dried blood that graze her neck. She sees the sweat sheen on her forehead and the cut of her brow; all scowls and edges, none of the gentleness and care one would expect from the daughter of a nature goddess.

She cups the water in her hands, seeping through her fingers, and brings it to her face. The cold gives her clarity; a reminder of who she is, and what she does, after the layers upon layers of duties that rest on her shoulders.

She is a daughter of war, just as much as she is of nature.

Jude straightens, offering one glance behind at the carnage, where the battle has slowly dwindled. The Greeks never stood a chance, and her lips twist in disgust.

The Underworld will take care of them.

Someday.

In her own, twisted sense of justice, she wishes to see it when it happens.

~*~

Her mother’s look of disapproval sends a wave of sick pleasure up Jude’s spine.

She bows in front of her, standing in the garden of roses and daisies she had tended herself, at her mother’s orders. Jude resents each and every one of them.

“Rise, daughter,” her mother says, distaste dripping in her voice.

The goddess of the harvest is exactly what mortals might imagine her to look like. Oriana sits on an ornate throne of wooden gold and green, vines with ripe fruit curling around the intricate carvings and the rests on her arms. Her white gown matches Jude’s, only meticulously clean and smooth, a picture of sophisticated grace with her flowers of muted colors blooming in her hair. The garden is bright, smelling of honey and wheat, trees towering over them like arches to an entrance. The path to the dais is simply grass and dirt, though when her mother passes, plants grow in her wake.

“What have I told you of your dalliances with bloodshed?”

Jude has heard this lecture one too many times for her liking, but she still keeps her head bowed and her jaw clenched as she answers.

“You have told me it is unfit for a child of yours.” In an act of defiance, she raises her eyes to the sharp gaze of her mother’s. “But I am not just your child, Mother.”

“You are a lady of nature, and are expected to behave like one.”

“I am a spawn of the god of war, is this not expected of me, as well? Does war not flow in the blood in my veins?”

Her mother curls her lip at her, chin jutted out. For a split second, she sees anger flicker in her sapphire eyes, but it is gone as soon as it came. Jude feels the sides of her mouth twitching in amusement.

“Where is Taryn, Mother? Does she not have duties to fulfill this day?”

Her mother stills, her face shifting from calm to stoic in mere seconds.

“That is why I’ve summoned for you, my daughter,” her mother says, voice hard. “Taryn will no longer be serving me after the full moon.”

Jude blinks up at her mother, features painting her confusion. A small seed of unsettling doubt blooms in her stomach, as Oriana’s stare burns into her.

“Why not?”

“Because she is to marry Locke at the end of the month.”

Jude’s heart drops into her stomach, and all she could manage to do is ogle at her mother.

“She’s _what_?”

Her mother presses her lips into a thin line, raising her perfectly shaped brow.

“You’ve heard me correctly. She is Locke’s bride, and they will join as husband and wife on the full moon.”

Jude stands abruptly, ignoring all decorum her mother had enforced on her, heart ringing in her ears.

_Taryn is a fool._

“And you approve of this? You approve of her—” she struggles to find words that describes her feelings toward Locke, that vile, little demon, “—disgusting—"

“Enough, Jude.”

“This is madness! Taryn should know better!”

Jude can see in her mother’s eyes that she is just as perturbed by their relationship as she is, and presses even further. “Taryn cannot marry that beast, that wretched creature will only drive her to ruin—”

“Do not speak such foul words in my presence.”

She reads between the lines.

_Speak them where I cannot hear—where no one can bestow judgment upon your feelings. It is not proper; you will only bring wrath on your shoulders should they hear._

Her mother thinks the same thoughts as her. After a milieu of clashing, this is something they can agree on.

It makes her all the more frustrated.

“You’re going to bless this marriage? Mother, you can’t.”

“I do not wish to, my child, losing my helper is not in my favor as well,” Oriana replies, her forehead crinkling, “but it cannot be helped.”

“Why _not?_ ”

“Locke had asked your father for her hand—he had followed as tradition dictates, and I cannot deny her now.”

Oriana’s relationship with their father, Madoc, has been a thorny subject that Jude does not want to delve. Her mother had always considered it a great shame, a grave mistake to have ever consorted with him, her image as a kind and motherly goddess in danger of being tarnished by the affair. Still, that one foolish night had bloomed offspring.

Jude and her twin, Taryn.

“Did he not think to ask me about this before he agreed?” she says, a question more to herself than her mother, but Oriana scoffs in response nonetheless.

“And why would he do such a thing?”

“Because—” _Because she was his daughter. Because he knows how greatly she cares for her sister, how she has sworn to protect her from exactly this—_

“Your father knows this is a means to an end. It grants him favor from Locke and all those who worship him.”

Jude holds back her snarl.

“Locke’s worshippers are bumbling airheads just as much as he is—”

“And yet he is still a god, and favor is favor. You should know that by now.” Her mother echoes her father’s word, and anger flashes in Jude’s entire being.

_She should have known._

Taryn had never been her father’s priority—that she is sure of. She’d always been the daughter Oriana had wanted—a worthy child of the goddess of the harvest; gentle, tender, graceful, trusting.

And that is her downfall.

Madoc, however, had raised Jude differently, in every way imaginable. He had honed her like a blade to be wielded in battle, striking strong and true. She needn’t bow to anyone except him, as an act of gratitude. And she liked that exactly as it is. She had expected that her father would at least take into account her wishes, after all she had done for him, but Oriana is right, as she usually is. Favor is favor; war is nothing but a series of favors fought for and upheld. Cities clashing and murdering in the name of their patron gods, allies and truces formed when the bloodshed and grief becomes too much to bear—war is a game, and her father is taking every advantage he can get.

Even if it means letting his daughters suffer.

“There is more to tell you.” Oriana adds, uneasiness now plain on her face. “There are new arrangements that must be made.”

“Which are?”

“You are to serve me permanently after the wedding.”

Jude blinks in shock, once, twice. Oriana purses her lips, as if the world her daughter has come to know is not tearing at the seams. Jude swallows the scream building in her throat, threatening to break free.

“And what of Father?” Jude asks, her voice unsteady.

“He shall have to find another right hand. It should not be difficult.”

 _No, it shouldn’t._ The words sting, burying themselves deep into her throat. That is the truth, Jude knows. She is a pawn in a game of chess that her father is constantly playing, but that did not make it hurt less, being considered replaceable. Her mother’s eyes soften at her reaction, her distress etched all over her face.

“I am not happy about this, too, but it is the way of the gods.”

“Mother, I cannot—”

“I know, child. I do not wish to force you into this, either. But my hands are tied…” her mother trails off, words left unspoken for Jude to fill in the blanks.

There’s something in her mother’s tone that makes the cogs in Jude’s mind turn. She sees it in the flash of defiance in Oriana’s eyes, trying to send her a silent message.

Oriana had never liked her the way she did Taryn—she often kept their visits to a minimum, letting her roam freely in Madoc’s tow, so wild and untamed, a nightmare to behold in the eyes of the demure—but she did love Jude nonetheless. They had a strange understanding of the other’s woes, which could have blossomed into a loving relationship had it been tended to. It is that which makes Jude start putting the pieces of the puzzle in her mother’s words together.

“I worry for your sister, Jude. Locke is a free spirit, and marriage is a fickle thing, but that’s the way things are,” she continues, jutting her chin out.

It clicks into place.

Marriage.

Jude’s stomach sinks even further as her mother sees the realization forming on her face. She nods sharply, a signal for Jude to take her leave. Jude bows, knees shaky and hands pale as death, reeling at the implication.

 _Marriage_.

Marriage is what had gotten them into this predicament in the first place.

_Ridiculous. It would never work. Her mother is absurd._

And even if it would work, who in the gods would marry a girl like her? A lower being, borne from two opposing forces, always pushing and pulling at her until one side wins over.

Still, as the soil cakes on the soles of her feet as she leaves, Jude cannot help but consider it.

~*~

Jude does not speak to her father when she sees him, the indignation simmering beneath her skin so palpable she’s surprised she hasn’t set herself on fire. She simply kneels, bowing her head, waiting for his dismissal of her.

“I assume you’ve heard from your mother.” Madoc’s voice is deep and firm, authoritative in every sense of the word. The sound of it would terrify most who appear before him, but it only grates on Jude’s nerves.

It isn’t a question, so she does not answer.

“Are you unhappy with me, daughter?”

Jude clenches her jaw and looks up at her father.

He is built larger than any mortal man could be, muscles and veins popping along his limbs—he wears his battle armor at all times, the golden hilt of his prized sword strapped to his waist, making him look even burlier at first glance. His eyes and hair are golden as the sun, with stubble lining his hard chin. Sitting in his throne of iron melded into gruesome portraits of war, he _is_ war, personified.

This does not scare her.

Not yet, anyway.

“I am.”

He raises an eyebrow, and Jude stands, fists clenching and unclenching by her side.

Unlike her mother’s realm, her father’s is dark, war flags of kingdoms and torches adorning the cement bricks that line the columns of the throne room, smelling of burnt moondust, metal and blood. Unwelcome, meant to be feared—exactly as he likes it.

“You knew what would happen if Taryn marries Locke. And yet you still gave your blessing.”

His mouth curls into a snarl, revealing sharp fangs he uses to intimidate his servants.

“And?”

“Am I of so little value you can toss me aside to serve Mother in the wake of Taryn’s absence?”

“I never said such a thing.”

“If that’s not it, then why are you giving your daughter away like she is a prize to be won?”

He rises as Jude starts toward him, his glare pinning her on the spot. A shiver of doubt runs through her spine, but she holds her ground. He’d raised her to do so.

“Do not test me, child. You know what happens when one crosses the line.”

She knows.

She does not care.

Still, she holds her tongue.

“The marriage is of little consequence—with Locke’s—” he pauses, contemplating a kinder word than what Jude wants to call him, “—affinity for affairs, he’d tire of Taryn as soon as he gets a shiny new plaything.”

Disgust rises like bile in Jude’s throat, their father talking about Taryn like an object to be tossed aside sending spikes of anger in her gut. Would he talk the same of her when given the chance?

“Father, this will not work. No one knows how you run things better than I do; to find a new servant, a new right-hand, it would take years.” Jude insists, keeping her hands that are trembling—from anger or anxiety, she does not know—behind her back. Madoc dislikes weakness. He can sniff out vulnerability like a bloodhound.

He raises a brow at her, and Jude’s insides turn.

“Are you begging, Jude?”

She is.

“I am not. I’m simply pointing out that every part of this is a poorly thought-out decision. You have little to gain, and much to lose.”

Madoc’s jaw tightens, analyzing her reasoning, and Jude feels as if he is peering into her very soul, trying to catch her in a lie. He had taught her strategy, and that includes not letting her emotions get the better of her. A mistake she’d pay for dearly.

Finally, he grunts.

“Be that as it may, the deed is done. I cannot rescind my words without consequence.”

Jude’s ears ring, and her chest tightens at the finality of her father’s tone.

“Then where shall I go?”

“You will serve Oriana.” Madoc replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Now go into the chambers and fetch the seals. You have work to finish.”

And Jude feels her world crumble at her feet.

~*~

The parchment goes in and out of focus in Jude’s eyes.

Time is a difficult thing to learn among the gods—Jude cannot tell whether days or decades have passed as she slaved away by her father’s side, leaving her mark on worthy warriors in battlefields and plotting out wars in kingdoms whose rulers are not even born. The only mark for the passage of time for her is Taryn’s wedding, looming closer and closer like a typhoon you cannot outrun, can only watch as it destroys everything you’ve ever built in your life.

Two weeks.

Her mind wanders often, drifting back to her father’s words that makes her grow cold. He’d assigned her to revise scrolls upon scrolls of demands from lower deities in different cities under siege. The Persian empire grows ever stronger, with more and more unsupervised attacks on Greek provinces. They prey on the defenseless, and had Jude been a mortal soldier or ruler, she’d have them gutted and their entrails hung in the agora as a warning for everyone. Her father lounges on the throne beside her as she burns candlelight in the shadows, her typical space for duties to receive word of any news. Her eyes sting in the dim light and her head is swimming.

She marks another demand denied, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood.

Normally, she doesn’t mind doing this for her father. But the cold fury snaking its way through her veins is not normal.

Jude feels cheated. It’s a sickening feeling.

She grips the reed hard enough that ink drops spill on the document, staining through the other side. Jude mutters a string of curses, reaching for the dagger strapped at her thigh. She cuts a portion of cloth from her gown and swipes over the desk. She desperately tries to salvage the document when the door clicks open, and…

Jude straightens as Noggle, one of the Gentry tutors, hobbles into the room and kneels at the foot of the throne.

“Rise,” her father’s voice booms. “What news do you have for me?”

One of the most important weapons in war, Jude had learned, is information. It is worth more than artillery, any weapon that can ever be created, and her father treats it justly so. He bargains handsomely for spies and information among the gods, anything to further his cause and to move the pieces on his board. Many take the opportunity to win his favor.

Very few do, though Jude is the only one who knows that.

“I have incredibly delicate information, My Lord.” Noggle’s eyes flit to her uncertainly, but her father nods for him to continue.

“She is no one. It is safe to speak.”

He does not spare her a glance, and Jude swears she sees a tinge of amusement in his gaze, which only makes her even angrier.

_No one?_

“The Underworld is in unrest.”

Her father’s demeanor does not change, but his eyes brighten with interest. Jude glances down at the scrolls she holds. She unfurls another one, feigning disinterest, but strains her ears to listen for more.

“The lord of the Underworld is getting more and more agitated with the war casualties increasing in number.”

“That is not news to anyone. We’re well aware that he’s always been a brat,” her father snips at Noggle, making him fumble with his words.

“That is not all, Sire, there are rumors… that the dead…”

Jude stops mid-stroke on the letter, anticipating the next words. Tension fills the throne room, radiating from her father like a beacon.

“…are rising. Because of him.”

Jude bites back a gasp. Her father says nothing, only nods at her to hand Noggle a bag full of drachma and a spell parchment. He walks out of the throne room frantically, as if he had just committed a crime he cannot take back.

“You will tell no one of this. Not another living soul. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Father.”

In the corner of her eye, she can see a twinkle of… triumph in the way her father’s lips is quirked, in the set of his brow.

Jude stares at the ruined scroll in front of her as Madoc stands and heads to his chambers without another word. The knot in her stomach coils tighter, but a seed of an idea buries itself within her mind, something she cannot ignore.

~*~

None have dared to tread the path that Jude walks on.

None are as brave as her.

Or as foolish.

Jude wears the leather armor her father had had made just for her, strapped securely around her bodice, the belt chafing against her skin as she trudges up the uneven path of the mountainside. Nightfell, the sword Madoc had endowed her when she had first pinned down his best soldier by the throat, is strapped to her waist, daggers hidden in her sleeves and ankle. Her forehead is matted with sweat, the hot summer night taking a toll on her patience. Her hair that she had tightly coiled into a bun before sneaking away has almost come undone, and she brushes an auburn strand away in irritation.

_Is it even here? If it isn’t, if they gave her the wrong directions, she’s going to find that redcap and impale him with a spear—_

Jude’s breath catches as her eyes stray to a tiny crevice etched onto the hard rock of the mountain.

Her heart thunders in her ears as she sees the symbol of the god of the dead carved into the stone, almost invisible to the eye. No ordinary mortal would ever see it, but Jude was no mortal; she traces it with her finger, a tingle of anticipation in her spine.

It had taken many threats of impaling and even more drachma to ask for directions to the entrance of the Underworld; messenger deities like Fand are the only ones who have any business travelling there, but no one would blink an eye to divulge their knowledge for the daughter of a war god, lest they paint a target on their back. And what little she’d heard…

It fascinated Jude.

She’s always spent her life around death and bloodshed, accompanied or on her father’s orders—she knows the toll of war to the living, but Jude has never stuck around long enough to see what become of the dead. How they are honored. How they wander to their final resting place.

But she had never done anything quite for herself… it was all under the pretense of her father’s wishes; of what he believes should be done. She’d defied him in little ways—taking detours to visit war camps that he kept hidden from her, giving soldiers an extra hand with a blessing of stamina or strength, the tiny spells she’d been able to perform with the gift that came from her lineage—but nothing like this.

This is her will, and hers alone.

And the thought of coming face-to-face of the subject of uncertain whispers that her father’s spies bring to their court, the disdainful words of their fellow gods… it was almost enticing.

She’s heard rumors about the god of the Underworld—feared by mortals, disliked by his brothers, sitting alone on his midnight throne, engineering the most elaborate contraptions for torment among the dead; isolating himself from the Olympians in his kingdom, in his cruelty and debauchery, with wine on his lips and nymphs in his bed.

Lord Cardan Greenbriar of the Underworld had made quite a name for himself.

Jude is not fazed.

No, she knows exactly what she wants, and how to get it.

She takes a deep breath, presses her ink-stained palm on the carving, and mutters the words that only the dead should know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of the Underworld meets his match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So I updated a day early because I might be unable to go online tomorrow and I didn't want to keep you guys waiting! I'll probably still stick to my update schedule on Saturdays, however, so stay tuned for the next chapters.
> 
> This was such a fun chapter to write and I think the setting sort of shifted their dynamic a little, but I hope I still captured our favorite murder-y losers nonetheless.
> 
> Enjoy!

_“How strange and lonely must it be that he who rules the dead shall live an eternity.”_

**_II._ **

He is on his third bottle of everdark.

The sweetness coats his tongue slowly, the tinge of pomegranate making its way down his throat and into the flush of his cheeks.

Cardan sits on his throne, donning robes of midnight and gold, his laurel crown askew on his crow-black hair, mussed from the delicate hands of the nymph sleeping in his chambers. He knows that when he returns, she will be nowhere to be found. Just as he wants.

“Pour me another glass,” he calls out to no one, holding out his goblet. Instantly, hurried steps shuffle up to the throne and his cup fills with the deep-red wine. Cardan swirls his slender finger in the liquid, eyes flitting from wall to wall in his empty throne room, and he thinks he ought to return to his chambers and finish his work, but where has that ever gotten him?

A fresh bout of irritation floods his chest as he thinks of his brothers’ complaints of his mismanagement of the dead. Was it not their fault he ended up here in the first place?

Cardan takes another gulp of his wine—rotten, the lot of them were. He’d never wanted such a responsibility in the first place, but as the youngest son of Eldred, the heathen Titan that they’d defeated (and their father, though his brothers didn’t like being reminded of that fact), the Fates had obligated them to give him a part of the world they had taken over.

Naturally, he’d been given the worst part.

That draw for territories was a damn scam.

And it might’ve been the only thing his brothers have ever agreed upon—which spoke volumes of how they felt about him.

He doesn’t care, Cardan thinks to himself, downing the last of the wine in his cup. The buzz of the alcohol starts to take effect on him, his skin hot and flushed all over, his eyes hazy and his balance a bit skewed. The black columns that stretch to the too-high ceiling blur in and out of focus and the diamonds of the chandelier that hangs above him glitters with a brightness that makes his head pound. Cardan has never liked how his palace had looked—in shades of ebony and shaped with marble, his castle stood tall in the center of the wasteland he rules, past the River Styx where The Ghost leads the unsuspecting souls to their final fate; petrifying in its coldness, a mirror to the man who resides in it; or at least—that is what many assume. Still, with only himself and his guards as company, he’s never seen the point of changing its appearance.

They could fear him, they could revere him, they could insult his image for all he cares.

Cardan runs a hand through his hair, shutting his eyes tight, already resenting the train of thought his mind has chosen. He has half a mind to call for Larkin to find him another nymph to grace his sheets—most never denied his wishes, but Cardan had made himself clear that he does not want to bed anyone who opposes it.

Those are his brothers’ doings, after all, not his. And Cardan wants nothing more than to be different from Dain and Balekin, the vile cretins that they were.

The echoing sounds of footsteps approaching his throne is the only thing that drags Cardan out of the spiral of his thoughts, making him straighten.

The Roach, one of his spies, runs to him with a frantic look in his eye, and Cardan immediately feels his chest knot at the sight. He only looks like that when something has gone terribly wrong—like when one of the human queens that were too vain for their own good had claimed that they were even lovelier than Lady Asha, the goddess of beauty herself, and she had threatened to skin the mortal alive herself if her head was not brought to her. It was against everything they’ve ever built, interfering with The Fates’ design, but as his mother…

He could not say no.

“What is it? Speak.” Cardan says, his attempt in steadying his voice formidable, but in vain.

“There’s a disturbance, Sire.”

Cardan’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Are they…?” he asks slowly, calculating the measures that have to upped if they have another breakout on their hands. The price to pay would be high—too high for Cardan’s liking. His lips press into a thin line, and Cardan regrets finishing his last bottle of everdark, his head too light for this kind of news.

But The Roach shakes his head.

“No, Sire, it’s something much more peculiar.”

This gets Cardan’s attention. “How can anything be more peculiar than that?”

“Someone has broken into the Underworld, My Lord. A woman has threatened to slice The Ghost’s throat should he not let her pass.”

Cardan freezes, hand mid-air to wave over his guards. “Pardon me?”

The Roach grimaces, as if not believe the news he is delivering himself.

“Yes, Sire. When he did not relent, she’d given him an obol; he had no other choice than to let her through.”

“Obols are only given to the dead—how could she have obtained one? Did she steal them from a funeral pyre?” Cardan could laugh at how absurd the whole conundrum is had his blood not been boiling at the thought of someone desecrating a funeral. The poor soul would be left to rot in the realm of the living. There is no fate worse than that, forever wandering with no purpose, their emptiness their only companion.

“The Ghost could not get it out of her, Your Majesty, no matter how much he asked.”

“And what of Cerberus?”

“That is what we cannot figure out. Cerberus is unharmed—he let her pass through.”

The anxiety that has been bubbling in the pit of his stomach only grows stronger, threatening to break free in either hysterical laughter or a long-building scream, Cardan is not sure what would be more alarming.

So not only is he having trouble keeping the dead in, Cardan is also failing in keeping the living _out?_

Oh, how his brothers would revel in this—he’d never hear the end of it.

Something smashes behind the closed doors to the throne room, jolting everyone inside and The Roach draws his blade in an instant.

“Stay in your chambers, Sire, I’ll take care of this.”

“Wait.”

Something whispers within Cardan—something that he would excuse as a symptom of his inebriation, something his drunken mind had conjured in the midst of panic—to listen to what the woman may ask of him. If she’s _here_ , of all places, then there must be something she has to tell him. Something, _something_ urges him to see her; how mad this woman is to break into Hell itself, what she has to say, what she’s going to do. The danger… it sends a thrill he’s not felt in a long while up his spine.

“My Lord?”

Cardan straightens the crown atop his head and smooths his robes, before nodding to The Roach.

“Let her in.”

~*~

The woman strides in, hair disheveled and face smeared with sweat and dust.

Cardan’s breath grows shallow as she draws closer, chest heaving under the layers of leather she wears as armor.

_She is no mortal, how could a mortal look so ethereal covered in soot and—?_

He shakes his head—what is he thinking?

She kneels on the foot of his throne, but keeps her eyes trained on him, not bowing her head. Her brown eyes are bright and alive, and had he not be entranced by the way her lips smirked, he might’ve detected the cunning edge in her gaze. The Roach eyes her warily from the door, but Cardan dismisses him with a shake of his head, and he leaves.

“What, pray tell, are you doing trespassing in my realm?” Cardan asks her coolly, taking a sip from his goblet when his hands found nothing else to do. She straightens, her hand still on the hilt of her sword.

“I’ve come to see you, My Lord.”

Her voice is lyrical, of sorts. Not soft or melodious, but steady, strong—fit for a climax of a ballad, one that keeps a person entranced listening. A wicked smile creeps on his face, strange satisfaction. He swipes the wine dripping from his lips with his thumb and leans forward.

“Me? Well, I’m quite flattered.”

“I have a bargain for you.”

Cardan’s brow twitches against his will—he tries to appear as unaffected as possible, but truth be told, this is exactly what he wants to hear; intriguing, to say the very least. No one comes all this way for nothing, after all. He shifts on his throne, crossing his legs to fully face her and nods for her to continue.

She raises a brow at him.

“You know what? I am in a favorable mood today. Go on then, amuse me. I shall hear you out, speak,” he quips, arrogance coating his tone to mask his eagerness. Bargains are tricky things, and though Cardan may not know many things, he knows not to show his hand too quick.

Something flashes in her eyes that he cannot place, but she sets her mouth into a line and continues.

“Marry me, My Lord.”

Cardan chokes on his wine.

~*~

A handmaid rushes to his side to offer him a glass of water, but he waves her off furiously, ears ringing and head reeling at the offer.

_Marry me._

The Roach is right—she is _mad._

Her eyes watch him steadily, never faltering as he tries to compose himself. Cardan feels himself losing control of the chessboard, even at such an advantage. He’d heard many ridiculous offers before—offers of statues and monuments and a city built in his honor, but _this?_

She is bold.

His coughs quiet and he has trouble looking her in the eye as she awaits his response. Surely, _surely,_ she does not expect him to say yes?

“Consider me amused.” is all he musters in response.

Her jaw sets—determination clear in her warm, earthy eyes as she asks for permission to speak again. Cardan gestures for her to continue.

“My name is Jude Duarte.”

_Jude._

A small voice whispers in the back of his mind: _how fitting._

“Daughter of Madoc and Oriana, and I ask for your hand in marriage in exchange for my assistance in the Underworld.”

Cardan bites down a gape of incredulity.

He’s heard of the affair—his spies are the most loyal one can get, what with him being the richest among all the gods, and he’s received rumors of that sordid night between the goddess of the harvest and the war god, though they’ve tried hard to keep it under wraps. And here… Here stands someone who should not exist—someone borne of harmony and dissonance, borne from a woman whose duty is to nurse and to help grow and a man who seeks destruction of those who cross him.

And she’s offering to marry him.

He supposes a spawn of such nature would be a fickle thing to understand.

Cardan thinks, however, that that makes the offer much more tempting.

_It doesn’t hurt that she is captivating to behold, even with her hair in shambles and her skin coated with grime._

He blinks once, twice. Suppresses a grimace.

Cardan does not appreciate his thoughts wandering in such a direction—especially as she stares at him with an unmatched intensity.

“What makes you think I need assistance?”

Her lips curve into a secret smile, one that sends shivers up his body.

 _No being should have this type of hold on another person,_ Cardan thinks to himself as he anticipates her answer.

“You’re not the only one whose currency is secrets, my Lord.”

She knows—it’s clear in the glint in her eye and the tilt of her head, of that he is certain.

“I’ve only heard whispers among my father’s courtiers, Sire. But I know things are worse for wear than what you make it seem. Lord Dain and Balekin have some choice words for you.” Jude smirks at him, and only now does he realize what a formidable opponent she must make.

“I’m aware of what my brothers are saying.”

“Are you aware that they plan on uprooting your rule here should this continue?”

Cardan feels as if he’d been doused in freezing water, his entire body going rigid. Jude’s smirk widens.

_How much does she know?_

“The Fates would not allow it.”

“May it be bold of me to say, I do not think The Fates concern your brothers, Sire.” Jude bites back a satisfied smile—and Cardan’s eyes fly back to her lips, soft as they are.

“That will not end well for them, I would trust.” he replies, prying his eyes away from her and into the depths of his empty goblet. “I’ve heard enough. Your information proves to be quite useful, I must admit, but you’re a naïve little thing if you believe that I would accept any offer you have after you’ve defiled my kingdom. Leave, before I force my guards to drag you out of here.”

She laughs. _She laughs,_ though humorless, and Cardan feels as if he’d played the wrong hand.

“I would not be so hasty in your decision, Sire. I can make your existence quite difficult.”

“Is that a threat, Jude Duarte?”

“No, My Lord—” she replies earnestly, the title now sounding mocking, “—it is a promise.”

A chill runs down Cardan’s spine.

“Why do you seek my hand in marriage? How does this benefit you?” he demands instead, hoping to take control of the situation he’s so desperately losing, but Jude just lifts a shoulder.

“Must you know the reason?”

“Do not toy with me.”

“I am in a predicament myself, Sire,” she admits, but even this, Cardan realizes, is calculated in of itself. The way her face falls, the way she bows her head. She is goading him, letting him see what he wants to, and he fears that it is working too well. “My sister’s marriage to Locke puts me in a precarious situation. I have served my father all my life and traditions dictate that once she is wed, I will be forced into servitude under my mother.”

“That does not sound as dire as you make it out to be.”

She pins him with a sharp glare and he quiets. Cardan curses inwardly at how quickly he responds to her. Perhaps she learned a thing or two from her father. Perhaps it is all her. Cardan isn’t sure what would be worse.

“I have worked with my father all my life. I know of things that no other being but him should know—and I think my mother would agree that I belong anywhere but in her realm.”

“And how would I be able to solve that? And you promised assistance. What exactly can you do if you’re marrying me to serve your father?”

Jude straightens at that.

“If I am to become your wife, I would be free of my duties to serve her. I would answer to you, and only to you. I’m well-versed in strategic planning, My Lord. I know of all wars in the ages passed and ages to come. I know who will come out victorious and most importantly, I know how many will die in them. I would serve my father for part of the year, and return here to make changes according to what I find out. Does that not sound compelling?”

It does.

“Is that all?”

Her face falls slightly, and Cardan chalks it up as a victory. _Foolish._

“What more do you need?”

“In our laws, the husband gets to decide the wife’s fate—does that mean I get the same liberty, sweet Jude?”

Cardan lets her interpret the meaning of his words, but a pang of irritation hits his chest when he realizes he cannot read her reaction. Her face is a mask, one so tightly worn it might as well have been a second skin.

“It depends on what you require, but I’m sure I can satisfy whatever needs you may have,” and the vicious smile on her face makes his skin crawl—with anticipation? Fear? Cardan cannot be certain. He feels hot, and it doesn’t seem to be the wine’s fault.

He knows that she knows what he means.

“And if I say no?”

Her smile widens, her brown eyes blaze in the dim light, and that is when Cardan realizes that she truly is something to fear.

“I am a daughter of war, but I am also my mother’s child,” she says with a chilling tone, touching the cold stone ground. Beneath her fingers sprout vines bearing berries the shade of his palace. Cardan could only stare in shock as she plucks a plump one and holds it to show him.

“If you say no, my hand would be forced to grow these in city waters. It wouldn’t be hard; lakes and rivers have an abundance of greenery both near and within them. I call it hemlock, Your Majesty; its juices would seep into people’s drinking water, and they would be dead before the sun sets.”

Cardan’s jaw drops.

“You—you wouldn’t dare,” he sputters, losing all hints of composure. “You’d be meddling with The Fates’ design. The consequences would be severe.”

“An eternity of meaningless servitude under my mother is punishment enough, and I think the Fates know that. My father would replace me, so I have very little to lose.” she replies nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just told him she’d be willing to poison entire cities with her creation. “And even if you tell your brothers, both my parents are under the impression that my grasp at nature magic is weak—I’ve never given them reason to doubt otherwise; which is why my mother sent me to serve my father in the first place.”

She examines the fruit in her hand, rolling it between her thumb and index finger, smile still on her face. Then she gives him a look, the final nail in the coffin.

“If both Oriana and Madoc come to my defense, two respected and diligent gods, who do you think your brothers are going to believe? Them, or their estranged, irresponsible brother who cannot even do his duties correctly? One who has every possible motive to commit such a crime by beguiling a naïve woman to do his bidding?”

“And why would I do such a thing?”

“A kingdom with an ever-growing populace is powerful, Your Majesty. It can also help cover up the… ah, mishaps that have happened recently.”

Cardan is stricken.

She’s trapped him.

“You are a sickening creature, Jude Duarte,” he all but spits, but nothing quells the dread settling deep in his stomach—and the anger that coils right underneath it. He’d been bested by… a mistake, someone who shouldn’t exist in the first place. A foolish, idiotic mistake is going to cost him his kingdom. She nods, eyes never leaving his face.

“I leave the choice to you, Your Majesty.”

“I would still need your father’s approval before marrying you,” he finally replies, grasping at the final straw he has. “And what reassurance do I have that you would hold up your end of the bargain?”

“I have a solution that would work for the both of us.”

Cardan highly doubts it. He eyes his goblet, wondering if another bottle would be worth it, before motioning her to follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like it! I'm super excited for the next couple of chapters because I think they're going to be the most fun to write.
> 
> For updates, you can follow me on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/agnesiswriting), and if you liked this or my other fics and are able to, you can buy me a [coffee](https://ko-fi.com/agneswrites)!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, as always, I am incredibly appreciative of any feedback! Stay safe and lovely!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The banquet.

_“Born a bastard, forged into a weapon, ascended to the throne. She is what epics are made of.”_

**_III._ **

Her currency is secrets, but she bargains in lies.

Jude watches as he leads her to his chambers, heart pounding in her ears. He radiates fury, and were it anyone else but her, who’s dealt with spells of Madoc’s rage and came out alive, she would be wary. Instead, Jude is triumphant. She’s many things, after all—a sly foot, a strategist, a soldier.

But if she is anything, she is a liar.

And all liars know that the best lies are those closest to the truth.

His chambers are as divided into three equally large sections, separated by golden painted door-frames—in one sits an oak desk with stacks upon stacks of papers laid haphazardly, a reed sticking out of an ink bottle left open by its owner. A wilted shrub in a pot stands beside the desk, leaves dry and discarded on the floor. Wooden shelves line the wall as a diamond chandelier hangs above them, and as Cardan nods for her to sit on the serpentine shaped chair as he plops down onto his own, all traces of formal grace gone, Jude observes the slightly cracked open door across the room, where a bed can be seen. He decorates much simpler than most gods she’s encountered.

Cardan does not bother putting on airs now, which Jude appreciates silently; it makes him easier to read, after all. He pinches the bridge of his nose, as if trying to fight down a headache.

“We might as well make arrangements now.”

“You’re accepting my proposal?”

He sends her a heated stare, one she returns, that makes him turn his gaze away.

Jude had always been told that she had a presence like her father’s, one that makes people tremble where they stand, and it remains to be one of her greatest weapons.

“I am. We are to be husband and wife, but before we settle some… issues that may arise,” he draws his lower lip to his teeth, and Jude cannot help but look.

The Lord of the Underworld is alluring, that she cannot deny—crow-black hair and eyes as dark as an abyss, skin paler than Elowyn’s moon. His eyes are lined with kohl and his cheeks dusted with gold, rings adorning his slender fingers. In his robes and the lopsided crown of leaves on his head, Jude thinks he looks youthful—his beauty seems too bright for the eyes, almost painful to stare at, but beautiful all the same.

If only he were more pleasant company.

Jude had not missed the way his eyes dragged up and down her body when she had presented herself, scrutinizing every curve and dip she had underneath her garments, as if she were a diamond being appraised of its value, or how his voice dripped with conceit, of how he looked at her like she was easy pickings. It made fire crawl up her chest, and she had only been satisfied when she saw the panic settle in his eyes.

“What issues?”

“Your father, first and foremost.”

“He shall not know of this wedding.” Jude says immediately.

“Why not?”

Jude grimaces at the thought of her father’s delight in finding out she had secured an alliance with one of the most powerful gods in the pantheon, and it unsettles her deeply. Another advantage in the game no one else knew he was playing.

She’s tired of playing it by his rules, and his alone.

“Would you really prefer my father trying to coerce you into a coup of some sort as my husband?”

“He’s planning a coup?” Jude lifts a shoulder, swallowing down the lie with ease. She spins an intricate web, one that will not be so easily unraveled no matter who his spies may be.

“Father is unpredictably predictable—he enjoys power, and he enjoys the knowledge of being smarter than everyone else to take it. A marriage-alliance to the Underworld would mean a great deal to him.”

Cardan’s lips downturn, his forehead scrunching at the implications.

“You said you’re doing this to continue serving him, so must you keep it a secret?”

Jude faces him, crossing her arms around her chest.

“Just because I wish to serve him does not mean I have to give into his every whim. Consider it my revenge of him giving away my sister like an object to a cretin like Locke.”

Cardan’s frown only deepens, and the dim light of the chandelier reflects in his unreadable eyes. There is an unspoken question there, but he knows better to ask it, Jude thinks.

“Then that will make this difficult.”

“Not necessarily, My Lord. There is another way.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Have you forgotten the myth of your own realm?” Jude asks, and realization dawns on Cardan’s face. Jude nods to the dead plant beside him, standing up. She touches it, recalling what her mother had taught her, and the plant’s leave shifts into shades of green, straightening itself out. The longer Jude touches it, the healthier it comes to look, and after a minute it bears round, red, leathery fruits, ripe for the taking. She looks back at Cardan, who watches her silently, but his eyes betray the incredulity he feels as she picks one from a branch and hands it to him.

 _“He who consumes the food of the Underworld shall reside there now and forevermore,”_ he whispers under his breath, holding the fruit as it if it were a deadly poison. Jude thinks it might as well be.

“That is how we will marry. When I eat this fruit, I will be bound to you and to this place. We will exchange vows and when I visit my mother, I will have her bless the union. It is unconventional, but it is a marriage nonetheless. I can only leave with or without your permission, and you can summon me back whenever you wish.”

His mouth curls into a sneer. “And if I never permit you to leave?”

“Then I’d use force. Are you sure do you want to get to that, My Lord?”

He slumps back into his chair, pomegranate still in hand, his glare as biting as ever.

“I have conditions of my own, Jude.”

His voice is soft but Jude thinks of the way he says her name. Like a curse.

 _Good_.

“And what would those be?”

Cardan places the crimson fruit gingerly on his desk, his fingers finding the curls of his hair. He stares at her silently, weighing his next words. Finally, he settles on one word.

“Sit.”

~*~

“I’ve no problem with that, so long as it is of the utmost importance.” Jude replies, the late hour and exhaustion finally creeping up to her. She refuses to let it show, however, as Cardan grows more adamant by the condition.

“What determines the importance of summoning you back here? You cannot refuse when I do.”

“You cannot call me back too often or my father will grow suspicious of our affair,” she spits out the word _affair_ like she cannot handle the taste of it on her lips. Cardan’s eyes grow dark, and without warning he leans over the desk and grabs Jude by her collar. In an instant, faster than he can blink, Jude draws her blade and poises it at his throat.

“You will _not_ touch me.” Jude says in a low, dangerous voice. Something she cannot place flashes in his eyes, flicking to her weapon and back to her face. His grip on her collar loosens, but does not let go.

“I am on my last nerve with your derisiveness, Jude Duarte. You come to my realm, you dare threaten me and desecrate whatever laws The Fates have decreed, and you have the gall to act disgusted? Perhaps I should throw you to my Furies and see how it softens you.”

She presses the blade deep enough to break skin, and a line of gold drips from Cardan’s neck. Flinching, he drops her, hand flying to the cut. He only stares at her, hatred now plain on his face.

“Tread carefully, Your Majesty. I could do much, _much_ worse than that. Your guards would not be able to piece your remains back together,” she warns him, and that was not a lie.

Jude had relied on lies to sell the deal—even she was not imprudent enough to murder cities of Greeks no matter what his answer would be; her father, and certainly not her mother, would defend her should she do something so heinous. The Fates would not be kind, either. And though his brothers are incredibly dissatisfied, neither of them would be foolish enough to overthrow what was destined. Still, Cardan’s isolation from the life above is easily exploited—spies can only find out so much, even with all the drachma in the world. And even they can withhold information they can sell to the highest bidder—for a King, His Majesty truly is naïve.

And Jude is her parents’ best kept secret—the only thing the gods know of her is her existence; everything else is shrouded in mystery. He can call her bluff but have nothing to prove it. The only thing of truth that she had told him is that neither Madoc nor Oriana knew the extent of her skill with greenery; she’d grown hundreds of plants, all poisonous in nature. How fitting that the only life she can create can be wielded as a weapon.

A web that cannot be unraveled, indeed.

Cardan watches her as she wipes the ichor off her dagger, anger and fear mingling in his dark eyes, and Jude wants to smirk.

_Naïve. A coward. A ruler with a kingdom too big for his britches._

“I will carry your duty for you—I will bear the burden and blame for any errors I may make—” Jude grits her teeth, “—and you may punish me however you see fit when this happens.”

Cardan opens his mouth then closes it.

“Is that a fair enough trade for you? Throw me to your Furies should I fail. Keep me imprisoned in your dungeons, devise whatever torture method your heart desires, I will agree to it without a fight. But if my efforts in the year proves satisfactory, I will speak to you as I wish, I will leave when I wish, and you will hold no power over me.”

He stays silent at that, and Jude takes a seat, exhaustion clinging to her muscles with a vise-like grip.

“That may be the first reasonable thing you’ve said since you’ve arrived,” he tells her, still standing with a hand to his throat. Jude stares at fruit on his table, waiting to be consumed.

“I will not force you to stay, Jude Duarte. Be repulsed by me and my methods, be insolent, be distant, but do not mock the vows that will bind us together. They are sacred, and should be treated as such.” His voice betrays the exhaustion his face doesn’t.

_He sounds like my mother._

“I will hold my tongue. And I will bear you no ill will should you take consorts to our bed, if that is what it takes to satisfy you.”

Cardan does not reply, his attention on the reed dripping ink on his desk. It’s strange, Jude thinks, he does not seem to be the type to hold marriage at such a pedestal. That was her mother’s duty, after all. Still, she presses on.

“I will ask for nothing more than my freedom. You will continue to rule as if I do not exist, you will live as you want without the burden of the dead on your shoulders. I will slave away by your side to keep them in line, just as I do armies with my father. You will want for nothing; I promise you that.”

“What will you tell your father when you’re gone?”

“That is a problem for another day.” Jude quips back, but truthfully, the solution was quite simple. An arrow aimed at the throat of the mischief god is incentive enough for him to let Taryn free to serve her mother for the time she serves Madoc. When she leaves her post by his side, Madoc would assume she would be off with Oriana.

“I would, however, need some access to your realm’s wealth.” At his cautious expression, Jude rolls her eyes. “I won’t empty your vaults, My Lord. I’d only take what I need. People’s silence comes at a price, be it gold or blood. I should hope it would not come to the latter.”

“You are _not_ murdering anyone.”

“Gods cannot be killed, only incapacitated.” Jude replies coolly.

The disgust in his gaze is familiar, welcome. Jude has seen it her entire life, in the scrutinizing stares of her father’s spies, in the stolen glances of other deities—the emotion had grown on her. She will never be loved; let her be repulsing, instead. Let her be feared.

“Including me?”

The corner of Jude’s lips lifts at the question. “Not without reason.”

“Swear on it.”

“I promise.”

“No, _Jude,_ ” he leans forward, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Swear it upon the River Styx.”

Jude sucks in a breath. That is quite the request. An oath not to harm him would be unwise, not with the loathing present in his features. The Styx takes promises more seriously than the Fates. She would be bound by it, no matter what. Still, she has to promise him something, something to appease him.

“I swear upon the River Styx that I will not kill you.”

He frowns, noting the words she chose, but he nods nevertheless.

“Then it is final. I shall only ask two things of you, both certainly within your capabilities.”

Jude gives him a wary look, but a felonious smile creeps up to his face.

_It suits him. He looks much more the villainous king that the spies said he would be._

“I ask for your unflinching cooperation. You are to be my wife, and should perform the duties of one. You will be named Queen of the Underworld, my sweet Jude. You will live here, as a wife should. You will come home as soon as your time on the surface is up, or I will drag you down here with my hellhounds.”

 _Queen._ The title sounds forced—like it was mocking her. She did not fit such a title, but a thrill shoots up her spine nonetheless. Jude did not think he was foolish enough to try and bed her against her will, however, but there are other duties… And the time; Jude was not particularly worried about defending herself from hellhounds, however, so she gives her agreement.

“And?”

Cardan’s mask falls, and for a second, his eyes flicker with an array of emotions, too quick for Jude to decipher before he puts it back up.

“I ask for us to be married properly. You will bathe and wear the garments I will offer you; you will vow your everlasting devotion to me, and I you; you will eat, drink, and make merry as all those who marry do.”

That shocks Jude more than anything he’s said, and she hides it a second too late. The false smile becomes a flash of a grin before letting its hackles rise yet again.

“Fine.”

“It is settled.”

Cardan picks up the pomegranate and eyes it surreptitiously. Jude juts out her chin, and realizes he has a plan of his own. She sneers inwardly.

Let him play his little games with her. Let him believe he’s one-upped her, let whatever strategy brewing in his mind stew. The overconfident will always take missteps. The inexperienced will always be short-sighted.

When she’s done playing, Lord Cardan Greenbriar will be on his knees, begging for mercy.

~*~

Jude bathes in a tub in a too-grand bathroom. Candles that smell suspiciously of carnation and chrysanthemum are lit surrounding her, and the lather on her skin proves only to be irritatingly out of place. The oils are sickly sweet, yet she drags them through her hair nonetheless. She scrubs the grime beneath her fingernails and dust from her collarbone.

Her naked body feels vulnerable—she’s only ever taken quick showers, enough to clean herself off and wash off the scent of sweat, but even during her wash does she never let her guard down. Jude has heard enough horror stories of gods watching whom they please and whisking them away against their will. Next to her father’s grounds, however, this is the safest place one can be—The Underworld is well-guarded even in the worst of times against mortals, which she supposes makes her own trespass an accomplishment. No one dares to venture here, no matter how precious the information they can get is.

No one except her.

It becomes immediately apparent to her that everything in the palace is designed for only Cardan’s use; the tub is too long, the mirror too high, and the decorations too specific, with images of snakes coiling around poles and hanging as ornaments. She frowns. Jude sinks her body deeper into the water, and even she cannot object that there is something unequivocally relaxing in its nature, one she’d gladly fall into had her body not been conditioned to be alert at all times.

When she feels clean enough, she steps out of the tub and drains the water, wondering vaguely where it goes—perhaps Cardan has it drained into Balekin’s seas; it would seem quite like him to irritate his brother whichever way he can. Jude picks up a neatly folded cloth and towels herself down. Her skin feels softer, somehow; it unsettles her. Her clothes and armor are gone, though she suspects Cardan would not allow her to wear it for tonight. Considerably reasonable, but her fingers ached for the feel of Nightfell nevertheless.

Jude is too short for the mirror, only showing her shoulders up in the reflection. She dries her hair with the cloth, eyes never leaving her likeness in the glass.

When she’d been younger, Taryn had often been perplexed, or even upset, that there is another person in the world who shared her face. Twins weren’t rare, of course; but they were not common, either. And The Fates do nothing without reason—but still, the resentment Taryn had for simply sharing their appearance had stung like nothing else. And though she loves Jude, she had always tried to something to set her apart. Jude does not blame her, but in her most bitter thoughts, she feels the indignation creep up into her chest—was she so repulsive her sister wanted to be nothing like her?

They were cruel thoughts. They were angry thoughts. But anger is something Jude is familiar with—pain had always been her companion, inflicting it her most powerful skill. Being on the receiving end, however—that is weakness. Madoc had called it as such when a soldier had sliced her finger off and she had come crying.

Even so, he’d had that soldier beheaded for touching her.

Jude frowns, her doppelganger in the mirror copying her—and she could not bear to look at her— _Taryn’s­—_ face any longer. She turns away, and makes her way to the bathroom door.

Would Taryn do such a thing? All the lives she’s threatened and false promises she made to get here; an eternal loveless marriage for a taste of her father’s respect. Perhaps if she did, she’d serve Cardan the way a wife should a husband. Perhaps she’d learn to love him, gentle and kind as she is, and he would return it.

With the way Cardan had spoken of marriage, Jude suspects he’d might be a better husband than Locke would ever be.

And that made her want to disembowel Locke.

She knocks on the door leading to her husband-to-be’s bedroom, waiting for clothes to be brought to her.

The door opens instead, and Jude is greeted with two women standing in wait for her.

~*~

One has charcoal black eyes—different from Cardan’s, colder and stoic than his wicked and arrogant—and longer fingers that brush her hair in front of the vanity. Her eyes flit everywhere except to the mirror, examining the strangely empty bedroom, save for the vanity, a side table and the large bed. The other, tinier and delicate, with brown skin and platinum hair like a cloud on her head, sits on the edge of the King’s bed, weapon strapped to her waist that makes Jude long for her own.

“What are you here for?” she asks.

“Lord Greenbriar wanted a proper wedding.”

“And?”

The woman brushing her hair starts twisting it into braids, weaving golden stem accessories in between the strands. She gives Jude a haughty look.

“We couldn’t perform the pre-wedding ritual. _Proaulia_ requires the family of the bride to agree to the wedding.” Jude resists rolling her eyes, and instead turns to the girl who still watches her.

“This is _Gamos,_ then?”

“A ceremonial bath and preparation, as well as bridal company, I suppose, yes. Since no one can take you to your husband’s new home, seeing as you’re here already, which is customary, he’d had us improvise. I’m the Bomb, and that’s Tatterfell. We’re sworn under Lord Greenbriar’s service.”

“Don’t move so much, girl.”

“Chop it off if you have such difficulty fixing it.” Tatterfell glares at her through the mirror, but Jude pays it no mind. She doesn’t seem like the person that could be intimidated, and Jude is still defenseless. Tatterfell coils her braided hair into a bun, with the golden branches surrounding her head like a crown, gleaming in the dim light.

“So you’re chambermaids sent to calm a poor bride’s nerves, aren’t you?” she says, an edge of mockery in her voice, but the Bomb shakes her head.

“I’m many things to the Lord. I have an affinity in mixing potions and making things shatter. Spy, alchemist, soldier—”

“Lover?”

Even Tatterfell stills at the accusation, but Jude’s tone holds no scorn. She’s heard of Cardan’s conquests, of course. One of the many, many things his brothers resent him for, though the hypocrites are no better.

The Bomb only shakes her head.

“Not that,” The Bomb offers her a small, cheeky smile. “Lord Greenbriar has much better options.”

_Of course he does._

Jude shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Liliver, get the gown.” Tatterfell barks at the Bomb, the name causing her to wince. Still, she stands up and takes a white box resting on the bedside table and removes the lid. She scoops it out and lets it unravel for Jude to see.

_Oh._

“It looks like a funeral dress.” Tatterfell mutters, but that only makes Jude’s amusement rise.

How clever of him.

The dress is eerie black, the neckline plunging to the golden belt at the waist, like a slit revealing her breastbone. See-through fabric ran down the curve of where her arms should go, strips of what could have been a cape. And adornments of honey gold lined the edges of the gown, all the way to its train that falls to the floor.

But what truly caught her eye is the golden serpents he’d given her for her jewelry. Snakes coiled around the coal black diamond of her necklace, her serpentine shaped earrings, bracelets that would wrap on her wrists like a boa constrictor trapping its prey.

She suspects that neither Tatterfell nor The Bomb knew what he is intending. The serpent is, after all, his most sacred animal. To them, that is all there is. Jude knows better.

Soldiers had a name for those who betray their camp. For those whose loyalty can be bought in their weight in drachma.

_Snakes in the grass._

As Tatterfell helped her dress, as The Bomb paints her lips in a shade as dark as blood, Jude wants to laugh at how clever Cardan must think of himself. As if branding her with the title her soldiers speak with such disgust will deter her—the unspoken vow of him making her deceit known for the rest of their lives—let him savor the spectacle.

Snakes don’t bite unless they’re provoked, of course.

And Jude knows how easy that comes for her.

~*~

The veil is easily the worst part of this whole ordeal.

It is a dark sheer cloth that allows her to see where she’s going, but opaque enough for it to look muddled and strange. Part of Cardan’s scheme to make this as inconvenient for her as possible, she guesses. Let him have his fun.

Still, with her gripping one hand on the wall and her other in The Bomb’s, being disoriented is new for Jude. Irritation floods every fiber of her being as she walks too slow, too uncoordinated for her liking, and she considers strangling Cardan for a brief moment.

“Can’t I take it off until he’s in the room?”

“No, unfortunately.” Jude hears the amusement in The Bomb’s voice. “Only he can take it off—that’s the essence of _Gamos._ ”

“If he keeps this up, he’ll be dead by morning.”

“In the interest of civility, I am going to pretend that was a joke, because if it wasn’t, I’d be obligated to restrain you.”

“That is truly the least of my problems. I would be able to have a knife at your throat and a spear in your stomach before you even draw your sword.”

The Bomb laughs.

It was an empty threat, of course, she’d sworn upon the River Styx not to kill him and though she’s sure she could find a way around that somehow, Jude knows it would be unwise to attempt anything this early on.

“The night will be over before you know it, I can promise you that,” she reassures Jude, and for her fiancé’s sake, Jude hopes The Bomb is right. She guides Jude into the dining hall and sits her on one end of the long table, where floating candles and chandeliers hung in the ceiling and golden banners of the Underworld decorate every wall. She smells the aroma of the food laid out in front of her even through the veil, and the chatter of Cardan’s subjects is surprisingly noisy, with guards and spies alike eyeing her warily.

She knows what she looks like. She knows what they think of her—slipped him a potion of some kind, seduced him into marriage, perhaps she’s even carrying his child, the heir to the Underworld. Jude takes a goblet from the table with red liquid and takes a sniff. Sickly sweet.

Jude feels the moment her husband-to-be walks in the room; it was in the way the spies straightened their backs and sharpened their gazes, the way they bowed low to him across the room, even if she refuses to meet his gaze. He is wearing a black and gold doublet that matches her gown, a different crown of leaves that rested upon his slicked back hair, feathers lining his collarbone and golden earrings dangling on his pointed ears. Various rings with an array of gems decorated his fingers that held his cup, an easy smile on his face.

“I am honored to have you all witness this union today,” he announces in an authoritative voice. If Jude did not know any better, he’d sound just like Dain during the banquets her father had made her come to. But there’s an edge of uncertainty to his tone that his brother’s does not have.

“Tonight, your King shall have his Queen. And so, will you. May The Fates bless our marriage and our kingdom with prosperity and abundance.”

His subjects repeat the prayer with varying levels of enthusiasm. She feels his heavy gaze lingering on her, but now is not the time to challenge him. There is power in choosing her battles, and this one was not worth fighting. So she picks up the goblet and makes a toast, not meeting Cardan’s eyes once.

~*~

Jude does not eat nor drink anything that is given to her. The myth rings in her head loud and clear, and for the first time, she feels a stab of doubt seize her being.

She is not sure how long people have been offering her well wishes and drinking themselves foolish. It must have been hours, or days, she fears. Even under the veil’s obscured view, she sees chambermaids and guards exchanging stories, cheeks flushed and laughter muffled behind hands. Bowls of soup and cuts of smoked meat are passed around, and across the table, Cardan listens to the spy who let her into the throne room, whispering in his ear.

Her head starts to ache with all the noise, and she longs to bury her head into her pillows back at her father’s castle when a warm hand touches her shoulder. Instantly, she goes rigid, and turns to find Cardan’s unreadable face staring at her.

“Shall we?”

Dread knots in Jude’s stomach as her doubt makes itself known again.

_He’ll force himself on you._

She knows this. She can defend herself. If he does not know what “no” means, she’ll carve its meaning on his ichor-covered corpse.

Jude could not bring herself to answer, so she nods instead.

Cardan declares to the room that they will take their leave—and takes her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. His subjects bow to him as Jude follows Cardan to his rooms.

As soon as the door shuts, he lets go of her and starts walking up the winding stairs without looking back. Jude lifts her hand to lift the veil but Cardan’s hard voice stops her. Her heart jolts at the sound.

“Only I can remove your veil. If not, we will repeat the ceremony as many times over as your stubbornness.”

“I cannot see anything through this damned thing.”

“That is not my problem. If you injure yourself climbing something as simple as steps, that is just comeuppance.”

Jude snarls at him, though he doesn’t turn back, his body stiffens at her murderous glare. Still, he makes his way up the stairs. Jude gathers the fabric of her gown, veil still in place, and follows him, stumbling like a drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and comments are incredibly appreciated. I hope you're enjoying this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably update this weekly so if you want updates, so you can follow me on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/agnesiswriting), and if you liked this or my other fics and are able to, you can buy me a [coffee](https://ko-fi.com/agneswrites)!
> 
> I'm super excited for this fic!
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> Please tell me what you think in the comments, if you want! Stay lovely.


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